


A Fit of Terror

by Casandravus



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Donald's parents and grandma are dead in this one, Episode: s02e10 The 87 Cent Solution!, Gen, Panic Attacks, Scrooge talks Donald down from a Panic Attack, no betas we die like men, the ending of this episode gave me FEELINGS and HERE WE ARE, vague-ish mentions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casandravus/pseuds/Casandravus
Summary: The grief Donald buried for ten years pulls him down. He remembers something he’d learned in therapy - there’s a bottom to this, somewhere, he just has to find it and work his way back up.
Relationships: Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122





	1. The Terror

Donald wakes from his fainting spell with labored breathing. His eyes are wild and unfocused, as if he’s remembering something from a bad dream. He screams, tears pouring from his eyes. “ **I killed them! I killed them! I killed them!** ”

Mrs. B. guards the door. The boys run to Scrooge; surely, he’ll know what to do.  
  
 _His parents’ mangled bodies, wrapped in upholstery and metal._ _  
_ _  
_ _His Granny, unresponsive in her bed._ _  
_ _  
_ _His sister, voice covered by static over the radio until the transmission cut._ _  
_ _  
_ _Cushioning himself against his Granny’s side at his parents’ funeral while Uncle Scrooge speaks._ _  
_ _  
_ _Calling the mansion at three a.m., voice shaking._ _  
_ _  
_ _The cool steel of the pram handlebar grounding him, pulling him to fatherhood while Scrooge screams himself hoarse._ _  
_ _  
_ The grief he’d buried for ten years emerges from the depths of despair, pulling him down. He remembers something he’d learned in therapy - there’s a bottom to this, _somewhere_ , he just has to find it and work his way back up. But how? Everything is blue fading to black, and he can’t breathe. Old, repressed memories of his tumultuous childhood make their way past him, and -   
  
**Tha-thump, tha-thump. Tha-thump, tha-thump. Tha-thump, tha-thump. Tha-thump, tha-thump.** **  
****  
**Can’t be drums. This is too strong. Too clear. Too slow. This - **  
****  
****Whoosh. Aah. Whoosh. Aah. Whoosh. Aah.** **  
****  
**Is that the ocean? It can’t be, he hasn’t lived at the pier in months! ...Breathing? Not his, he’s still choked, and -  
  
 **Something soft rubbing his back.**   
  
He thinks he knows where he is, but it’s still hazy. Something’s triggered a bad episode, he knows, and he needs to -   
  
**Singing.**   
  
He breaks the surface and takes a breath.   
  
“I killed them,” Donald says again, softer; eyes still unfocused, but much less wild than at the start. “I killed them all with my bad luck.”   
  
“Nay, lad. Your love is greater than your bad luck.”   
  
“ _You’re alive_ ,” he whispers with a shudder. “Unkie Scrooge, you’re _alive_ .”   
  
“Yes, _mo mhuir_. I’m sorry we forgot to tell you our plan.”   
  
“I didn’t kill you?”   
  
“No, Donald.”   
  
He pulls back, using both hands to touch his uncle’s cheek feathers, his shoulders, his hands. He rubs his thumbs over Scrooge’s eyes. “ _Tapadh Dia_ ,” he mutters. “Oh jeez, I probably scared the blazes out of the boys!”   
  
Scrooge wraps Donald in another hug. “Ye did, but they also said that they’d seen you have attacks before. This one was just out of their hands because it was _ten years_ in the making. Try not to feel bad - they came for me as soon as it started. It’s only been about an hour.”   
  
Donald nods, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle Scrooge.”   
  
“None of that. I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in myself. I didn’t think Louie would _forget_ , and I… I thought you’d healed from the rest. Except Della, obviously…”   
  
Donald shakes his head. “I had to raise the boys; I had no time for grief. Or anything else, really.”   
  
Scrooge holds him close. “Ye can camp in my room tonight, if - “   
  
“I’d love that. Thanks, Uncle Scrooge.” 


	2. The Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge finally says what's on his mind. Lots of tears are shed.

_“It’s my fault,” a six-year-old Donald muttered as his uncle tucked him into the_ **_nicest_ ** _bed he’d ever slept on. “I killed them. I killed Mama, and Papa, and Granny. My bad luck killed them,” he sniffed._

_Scrooge sat on the bed next to him, rubbing his hair. “Nay, lad. You didn’t kill them.”_

_“I was the last one to speak to all of them, and now they’re dead.”_

_“You’re not the one who was driving the car that hit your parents. You didn’t make your grandmother’s heart stop due to her age. Bad luck doesn’t quite work that way, even if you did have it. You can sleep here with me, if that’ll help.”_

_Donald sniffed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”_

**_What the blazes had his father been telling him?_ ** _“You’re six, laddie. It’s your job to feel big feelings, and be needed, and be loved. Sure, I might ask ye to help at the money bin and keep your room decent, but that won’t be for a while, and that’s not because you’re a burden. That’s because I want you to know how to work so when you’re an adult, you’ll be able to make it in the world. You’re my nephew and I love you.”_

_“Really, Uncle Scrooge? You love me?”_

_Scrooge planted a kiss on his forehead. “Aye, mo mhuir. I really do love you.”_

* * *

  
Donald finishes putting sheets over the air mattress with a small smile. He hasn’t thought about his first night at the mansion in years - how fitting to remember how close he was to his uncle now, when their relationship has been so fraught for so long.   
  


The guilt gnaws at him again.  
  
  
Sure, they’d been on good terms again for a few months, but they hadn’t had the chance to properly reconcile. He’d missed his uncle dearly in the early stages of raising the boys, and often longed for an extra set of hands to help. Donald hadn’t acted on those feelings until he had no choice because of his selfishness. 

Sure, he’d wanted the boys to be safe - and they _had been_ … But they’d had to scrape by and survive, between his horrid luck with jobs and how fast their needs ate through his savings. If he’d just been willing to grovel, the boys could have grown up with money, the finest education, and - 

“Ye all right, lad?” Scrooge asks. 

Donald runs a hand down his face. “Just thinking about how much the boys missed because of my anger.”

“I could’ve reached out,” Scrooge says, eyeing the air mattress with a frown. “Are you sure that’s safe, laddie? It looks a bit - “

“I know, I know. I’ve been paying for the boys’ clothes and things. My wants and needs come last - that’s how raising ducklings works.”

_You know that_ goes unsaid. 

“I’m sorry you’ve felt like I’m just mooching, by the way… I just haven’t been making enough to pay you proper…” Donald looks anywhere but at his uncle. 

Scrooge’s heart drops and he frowns, remembering how _casually_ he’d talked about taking his nephew out of the will, and how he’d called him a moocher during that game night adventure. Other instances - the results of ten years of silence between them - flash through his mind.

  
“I’m sorry, Donald.”  
  
His nephew’s eyes widen and turn liquid. He opens his beak, and -  
  
“I should’ve checked in on you and the boys. I should’ve realized that your savings and selling what little ye took from the house wouldn’t last you. I should’ve - and I could’ve - but I didn’t. You struggled and suffered and I didn’t do a single thing to help until you basically forced the boys into the mansion. Let me see your hands, lad.”  
  
Donald sits on the bed and puts his hands out.  
  
“You see these old burn marks? The breaks that didn’t quite heal correctly? How some of these feathers are stained?” Scrooge asks, thumbs caressing each injury as he names it. “These are the marks of fatherhood and courage, Donald. _These hands_ kept those boys safe, with a roof over their head and food in their bellies. _These hands_ taught them to read, taught them to do hard things, and held them while they cried. I couldn’t have done a better job with them here if I’d tried, _mo mhuir_ .”  
  
Sobbing, Donald collapses into Scrooge’s arms.  
  


* * *

  
Once his eyes adjust to the darkness, Donald realizes he _cried himself to sleep_ . All the things his uncle had said, though… He needed them. He needed to believe them. He wriggles a bit, trying to decide what to do about his current sleeping position.  
  
“Still want to sleep on that death trap?” Scrooge’s chuckle is light, a bit raspy.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
Scrooge rolls his eyes and gently moves his nephew over. “Get to your side of the bed and go to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning. I love you.”  
  
Donald, facing the opposite wall, smiles. “I love you too, Uncle Scrooge.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No betas - in this house, we die like men! 
> 
> In all seriousness, this will not be the only fic I write about Scrooge and Donald being emotional about things and supporting each other. Their dynamic is my absolute favorite in the show, and it's really healing to write.

**Author's Note:**

> "The 87 Cent Solution!" made me really upset on Donald's behalf. He's a good dad who's had no time to grieve, no time to do anything but focus on his boys, and who has STILL not had proper reconciliation with Scrooge as far as I've seen. So... I wrote this. Also, 'mo mhuir' is - very roughly - Scots Gaelic for 'my sea'. I got the idea to have Scrooge give Donald a Gaelic name from Adabotcon but used a different word and different translation process.
> 
> 28 June 2020: I am no longer allowing discourse in the comments of this fic, or any of my fics. Write your own fics or take it to Tumblr.


End file.
